Normal Life
by Commanderjc
Summary: In the nearly forgotten backwater Arteria Langes, pilots and soldiers go about their lives in service of the League. To them, NEXTs and Arms Forts are a rarity, an impressive event almost never witnessed. But ORCA is coming...
1. New Recruit

Normal Life: An Armored Core For Answer Fanfiction

**A/N: To most people who've played Armored Core, the focus is on the NEXTs- Those incredible machines that spit in the face of physics and can do more damage than any army. They fly across the wastelands of Earth and destroy every enemy in their path... But where do those enemies come from? What do they think when they are ordered to fight and die for companies whose leaders have never even set foot on the surface? Let's find out, from the point of view of a bunch of targets at a backwater Arteria.**

**I don't own anything but a few copies of the Armored Core series.**

_Southeastern Australia, Two Years Before ORCA'S Revolution_

_The sun beat down _on the city built in dust and ash, a shimmering haze hanging over the asphalt, where it was visible. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky, an endless, deep blue stretching from horizon to horizon, or at least as far as could be seen. It was, in fact, the kind of day where anyone without a definite reason to leave would stay as deep inside their homes as possible, cranking up the fans and hoping the power wouldn't give out, stranding them in the heat. The coastal city was silent, the only movement from windmills and small machines that tried to cool the squat, tan buildings, and the only sound the occasional wave lapping at the shore.

Far above, a small group of wheeling, dark shapes were silhouetted against the cloudless sky, but they weren't birds- The distant sound of screaming engines echoed through the wasteland, as the shapes dipped lower. As they closed, their shape became more apparent- Wide, massive aircraft, looking like two boomerangs stacked on top of each other.

As they approached, another sound became audible in the silence- A building hum that grew into a steady tone. In a few moments, a bright streak of green light blasted across the sky, striking the front of one aircraft, then was absorbed and vanished. Similar streaks hit the others in the group, and the roar of engines rose again as the planes began to climb.

Faint green haze remained behind, leading back towards the origin- A fortress, with high walls bristling with guns, built on what had once been an island off the coast. A small bridge connected it to the city, covered by two towers of solid steel. Dozens of hangers filled the interior, all closed to the heat and sand of the endless desert, leaving only the massive fuel cannons, the source of the beams, to move.

The cradles refueled, the cannons of Arteria Langes settled back into their normal positions.

* * *

><p>In front of the entrance to one of the Arteria's hangers, Taro Amsar waited for someone to open the door.<p>

He'd had it all figured out- He'd start out as an MT operator, and work to the top and become a Lynx. Of course, the only problem was what came between.

He was vaguely aware that almost all Lynx had once been pilots of Normals, and that skill in combat could get an MT promoted to a Normal. But how? Were they counting kills or did just surviving- something he had little doubt would be hard enough- get you to a higher rank? It wasn't like the military told the planet-dwellers anything, they just recruited them.

Becoming an MT operator hadn't be very hard. Taro had walked over to the Arteria and asked if he could become one, and they'd taken him inside, stamped and signed some paperwork, asked some normal questions ("How old are you?" 19. "Do you have any family?" Not anymore. "Have you had any experience in the military?" No.) and some abnormal ones ("Have you ever had visions?" No. "When you were young, did you like girls?" ...No? "Have you ever been affiliated with a terrorist group?" What?), before he'd been given a room, a callsign that he couldn't recall...

And now he was going to get his machine. A Muscle Tracer, the eternal cannon fodder of the companies' wars. They were a joke, an anachronism, the first kind of mech to be made and the first to be made completely outdated. He wondered if he'd use a Mamluke, like the ones he'd seen being used for cannon fodder on the Collared Events, with its absurdly thin legs and pitiful rifles.

They couldn't give him anything, though, if he died out here in the heat. Which was looking more and more likely as the minutes ticked on.

The still haze was shattered by the sound of an engine roaring. A flatbed truck, huge and probably originally built to carry fighter jets, rounded the corner between two of the warehouses, but it wasn't like any truck Taro had seen. Instead of wheels it had treads, and the engine was massively oversized. This was done for an obvious reason- Two massive shapes were tied down on the bed, each covered by a sandy tarp large enough to hide a house. Whatever they were, the truck was all but leaving impressions on the asphalt from the weight, and it was making slow progress even with the treads and engine.

So slow, in fact, that, that the man walking alongside it was yawning. When he saw Taro, he paused midyawn. "Hey, kid!" he shouted, hurrying ahead of the truck. "What the hell you doin' out in this heat?"

Taro stood about a head shorter than the other man, his shaggy brown hair about level with the yawner's dogtag necklace and rather messy compared to the other's long black hair. He looked around, just in case the man was adressing someone else, and saluted. "My name's Taro Amsar, sir, I've just joined up and I'm getting my MT, sir, and-"

The man waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah. Don't give yourself an attack introducing yourself, kid. Name's Jackson, Razor Jackson. Don't bother saluting, we don't really care about rank here." He walked over to the hanger doors and gave it two swift kicks. "Hey, old man! Open the damn door before we blow it down!"

The truck pulled up alongside, slowing gradually until it ground to a halt. Up close, the load it carried stretched far above his head, both lumps about the size of a house. A redheaded woman looked out from the driver's seat, a cigarette poking out of the corner of her mouth. "Hey, Razor, what if he's not in? I mean, 's not like his only job's making sure our Tees stay up an' running." She took a drag and grimaced at something, before looking Taro over. "Name's Walker. Guess you'll be in our quad, then."

"Huh?" Taro was about to ask what she meant the the hanger doors began to rise with a racket like a steel mill. The interior was massive, probably two or three stories tall and filled with scaffolding and equipment. The lights, however, were almost all off, giving the place an abandoned feel.

Jackson waved up at something in the upper levels. "Old man, we got two casualties for ya and one fish!" Taro, if he squinted, could just make out the shape of an ancient control booth, the glass long shattered, with an old man in a gray uniform sitting in it. He scowled, although it could have been his normal expression, and nodded.

The truck trundled forward, its large loads leaving only a little room between the roof and themselves. It stopped in the center. Walker stepped out, tossing her cigarette away.

"Alright, what did you do t' my babies this time?" The old man had suddenly appeared, moving far more quickly than Taro would have guessed. He was small, barely four and a half feet high, with a wrinkled bald head with deep wrinkles and more scars than Taro wanted to imagine.

With a sense of ceremony, the ropes holding the tarps to the truck's cargo were cut, and the covering pulled away. Taro let out a gasp.

They were MTs, but they were _huge_. He'd never really gotten a sense of scale from the Collared matches he'd seen- Everything had seemed so alien and detached. But these machines in front of him didn't seem small; They loomed. Both were in what he would learn was called a seated position, their legs that had been so derisively called chicken legs now folded to keep them steady and more transportable. The weapons that had seemed ineffectual now were imposing, the machine that had once seemed so fragile now looked... Dangerous.

It was also, however, badly damaged. The front MT had a shattered leg, and it was propped up by a pile of tethered-together scrap metal. The joint was melted and the area around it flecked with droplets of cooled metal, while the cockpit itself had gouges and tears on it from bullets. The other MT was even worse off- A cannon shot of some kind had crushed the cockpit and blown out the other side, essentially decapitating it. Taro shuddered as he saw it- No one would have survived that, he knew, and the illusions about the seeming strength of the MT faded a little.

The old man sucked in through his teeth. "Second one's scrap, I can tell you that now. No way to fix it with that much damage. The leg, I can deal with, but it'll take some time." He shook his head, walking towards the truck. "Whose were they?"

"The first one's mine," Jackson replied, "But the other was Kuze's. He got one hell of a sendoff, though."

"Yes, I've heard. It's quite an honor to get killed by a NEXT."

Taro's ears flared at the word. NEXTs? The word conjured an image in his mind, the romantic ideal of a soldier in an invincible suit of armor, battling terrorists and those who would threaten the league, able to fly faster than even a plane...

Then the other shoe dropped. "Why was there a NEXT fighting Arteria troops?" he thought out loud, then blushed as all three soldiers looked at him.

The old man grinned. "So, this is the fish, eh? Very perceptive, I see. And my I ask your name?" He was suddenly right in Taro's face, and the boy flinched.

"Taro Amsar, sir."

"Oho, Asian, eh?" The old man squinted. "You don't look it."

"No, sir, my mother just liked the name, sir..." Taro wished he could fold in on himself.

"Oh? That's a silly reason to choose a name. It ought to _mean_ something, eh? Like mine. Albert Dyson, named after two great scientists!"

"Isn't 'Dyson' some guy who made cleaning supplies?" Walker asked from where she sat on the edge of the truck.

"No!" Dyson rounded on Taro in a huff. "Anyways, what do you need here? Can't you see I'm busy?" Walker and Jackson had gotten to moving the cranes over, the heavy claws clenching the MTs to move them to their repair berths.

"I was supposed to get the codes for my MT, sir." Taro held up a slip of paper that helpfully confirmed this fact.

Dyson held the papers up to the scant lighting and squinted. "They recruited a scrawny kid like you? My _God,_ they're desperate these days!" The old man paused for a moment, then asked, quietly, "Where you from, anyhow?"

Taro looked at his feet. This was what had really landed him the job so fast, and the thing he'd hoped no one would ask. "I'm from the Cradles... Cradle Zero Nine. I left."

Dyson stared hard at the boy for a good moment. "I'd advise you to keep that fact to yourself, topsider. There's plenty here who wouldn't take kindly to it."

"Y-Yes sir. I understand, sir." Taro had realized that by now, at least.

"Well, come along then, you've got to know where it is as well. Just follow me, the MT storage is just past the Normals'..."

Taro didn't even notice that Dyson had never answered his question about the NEXT.

* * *

><p>An odd series of coincidences had eventually led to the construction of Arteria Langes in the middle of a planetside city called Metro. Generally speaking, the various Cradle fueling stations shied well away from these places, in order to hide the fact that there were humans left on the surface from the potentially sensitive members of the civilian populace. However, when the surveyors had originally come to the area, they hadn't <em>seen<em> anyone, just more of the flat, contaminated deserts that covered the Earth.

It wasn't until later that they noticed the little town hiding in the dunes, more under them than above back then. By that point the basic structure of the fortress had been laid down, and its fueling system on its way; There hadn't been the option of leaving, so they just ran with it. The fact that Langes was one of the least visited Arteria, and that it only one or two Cradles actually ever flew by it, also helped this.

As it happened, this lack of outside influence affected both the city and the fortress greatly. The city came up from the ground, building around the Arteria and eventually becoming a sizable population center. The two worlds had a partnership- Langes would use its advanced equipment to make the land more usable, and the water drinkable, and in return they received food and new workers.

By now, the two were indistinguishable, with a good half the staff of Langes coming from the civilian population. They had soldiers, too- More than most Arteria ever had. There were two large farming units, each supplying the entire area easily. Despite this, it had only a small percentage of funds, to the point that many forgot it existed.

They were self-sufficient. And with that, came independence, accidentally gained or not.

The League did not like independence.

* * *

><p>The MT- Taro's MT- was old. Dyson had opened up one of the other warehouses to get to it, and there they'd been- Dozens of the walking tanks, all folded up and identical in the sandy shadows. Taro had tried to go sneak a look at the Normals- One step closer to a NEXT!- but Dyson had pulled him along with a grip strength that belied his dimunitive size.<p>

"Yep, this one's yours. 29D. Unit 2, quad 9, D position."

The unfamiliar terms made Taro's head spin. "What's a quad? D position? What are you talking about?" Judging by Dyson's surprised and annoyed expression, he suspected he'd been gipped some important information by the recruitment office- Maybe because of his origins that had allowed him in in the first place.

The old engineer groaned, laying his head on his arm against the leg of Taro's MT. "Don't tell me they... Gah. Alright, the MT forces of this base are divided into four units, and then those each have ten quads of four MTs. One-sixty Tees in all, but you won't see that many in action... Well, _ever_. We don't got enough fuel or pilots. So only the first and second units are actually in operation. With you, that makes, ehh... Seventy two? Maybe more... I don't remember. We've lost a few and gained a few every week."

"I... I see." Every week? Their casualties were that bad? "Who piloted this before me?"

"No one," Dyson said, and Taro let out a breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding. "It's one of the ones what been sitting in these hangers for years."

It showed, too. A layer of dust covered it a quarter-inch thick, or so it seemed to Taro's eyes- The joints were caked with sand and grime, while here and there the metal was chipped or cracked. A few armor plates were missing on the body, which Taro pointed out. "What happened to there, then?"

"I, er... That is, the engineers don't always have all the parts they need," Dyson explained, shuffling on his feet. "So they take 'em from the unused machines. But don't worry, it'll be right as rain once it gets fitted." He gave a helpless smile. "We don't get much in the way of supply runs, y'know. Bet you'd never heard of this place 'til you came here, right?" Something seemed to strike him, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why _did_ you come here?"

Taro opened his mouth and shut it. How could one explain what the Cradles were like, with the heavenly image built up around them? "I wanted a change," he said, which wasn't exactly accurate but wasn't entirely false.

"You got one, damn straight, and you're a damned fool for it. I hope you know what you're getting into." Dyson harumphed and began to walk away. "I'll start getting the parts you'll be needing. The codes will be sent to your room soon enough- You know where that is, don't you?"

"Yeah. 5134. the South-"

"_I _don't need to know it, you do." The old man stepped back out into the bright sunlight and vanished around the corner of the hanger, leaving Taro alone in the structure.

He did know what he was getting into- He knew that he would die. But down here, it might mean something.


	2. The Unknown Dead

**A/N: I'm having to take some liberties with the piloting system of both the MTs and Normals. I'd have liked it to be simple and just use the AMS, but unfortunately the whole 'psychic visual targeting thing' is not included in the MT package, and probably isn't entirely there for Normals (since Killdozer had so much trouble adapting, but was still able to). Also, all of the mentioned models of vehicles are from the games. I don't own them or pretty much anything else.**

* * *

><p><em>The MT's joints groaned ominously as it rose from its seated position,<em> the legs unfolding to raise the cockpit high above the ground. Inside, Taro fought to keep his lunch down as the entire machine seemed to sway under him. After a moment, the computers in front of him beeped- It had stabilized.

Taro had gone to his room and fallen asleep almost immediately, still jetlagged from the trip- Going from the airconditioned cold of Cradle Zero Four to the glass-melting heat of the Australian Wasteland had sucked the energy straight out of the boy, and he had awoken to the sound of heavy machinery and a beeping console he hadn't noticed when he'd entered. It informed him that he would be immediately heading for piloting training, with only a brief time to grab some breakfast. Taro had eaten the rest of his food he'd brought with him before the time came.

The actual pilot's room inside the MT's 'head' was small. To the front and sides were screens displaying the view ahead of his MT, tinted in a headache-inducing green. There were less buttons than he'd expected; Instead, old and cracked touchscreens displayed simple options and readouts, most of which seemed to be green and presumably OK. One screen by his left arm displayed a diagram of the MT, with several areas redded out- A damage detector noting the missing armor plates, Taro guessed. He sat in a metal seat, his hands clutching two control sticks and his feet just able to reach what appeared to be pedals.

The identity and function of most of the things he saw eluded the boy, though. Fortunately, he wasn't alone in this.

"Alright, kid," Jackson said, his voice issuing from the headrest behind Taro. "There's a lot of stuff in a Tee, but it's made to be simple. A week's training should be enough to get you working it like a pro. Now, you see the screen directly ahead- Wait, what kinda Tee you operating?" There was a brief pause and a sound like paper rustling. "Oh, right. Same as ours, a... An MT63-MK Mamluk."

"What does that mean?" Taro asked, intrigued. He hesitantly turned the lefthand stick inward, and a targeting reticule suddenly appeared on the screen. It was a little off the center, towards the inside. At the same time, a creak echoed from Taro's lower left. Suprised, he moved it again; the reticule moved and the wall creaked.

"Hey, be careful with that. You're turning the left gun, and if you keep pushing it inwards it'll snap off. No sensors for that sorta thing, cheaper this way." Taro's hands flew off the sticks like they were burning. "Alright, then, uhh... There should be a screen in front of you, and it _should_ display a bunch of different columns, with numbers and letters. Is there?"

Taro nodded. There were five columns, in fact, with the numbers and such in squares- The first displaying the numbers 1-5 while the second and third displayed just 1 and 2. The fourth had the letters 'F R P S', and the fifth had 'S G K H L'. A few squares were highlighted.

"Is there?"

Taro looked confused, until he realized that Jackson wasn't actually inside the MT with him, and thus couldn't see his nod. The boy turned beet red. "Yes, there is!" _Look on the bright side, they __wouldn't see that._

"Alright, good." The older pilot seemed to be holding back a laugh. "First column's for your speed, second and third are for ammo types- Don't worry about those just yet. Fourth is pretty obvious- Forward, Reverse, Park or Sit. Last one's for cockpit conditioning."

Taro couldn't help but grin at that. "Like a car?" It seemed amusing to think that a machine of war would have something so mundane as air conditioning. It certainly didn't feel like it did, though.

"Nothing like a car. Those five buttons are for hazards. S- Smoke, if you're fighting in an environment where there are fires burning. It turns up the air filtration. G locks up the air entirely, so you only have a half-hour or so on canned oxygen. The K means Kojima- Locks down the entire cockpit and hopefully keeps you from frying. Last two are heat-" He stopped, then said, ruefully, "which really is air conditioning, and finally Lockdown. That's for if you're captured by the enemy and need to keep 'em out, or if they're trying to cut their way inside with blowtorchs or something like that. Locks up the armor, legs, whole thing, and puts it into a seated position automatically. There's no way in unless you phyiscally tear the armor apart. Unfortunately, that also utterly ruins the MT except for use as spare parts. No way to unlock it. So don't use it unless you're really sure."

Taro blinked as once again information was dumped on him in a flood. "Um... I don't..."

"Don't worry, there's not gonna be a test. And you ain't likely to need to use those- We MTs usually don't take part in those kinds of fights. Now, there are pedals under your feet- You push the right one to turn right, and the left one to turn left. Pretty simple. Push both in to go forward- You can't turn and move at the same time, so be careful about that. Turn the MT to face me."

Taro pushed in the right pedal cautiously, and shut his eyes tight as the cockpit lurched again. After a moment, though, it settled down to something oddly more manageable, and Taro opened them.

The MT was still turning, but the cockpit had stopped shaking. Some kind of compensator, or something of the sort, had taken hold, and now Taro only felt a comparatively gentle rocking at the machine turned. He watched as the hangers of Langes turned beneath him until he faced the one where Jackson stood in front of.

"Alright... Good! Stop right there." Taro couldn't actually see the man- He was below the camera's view. "Move the joysticks down. The cameras'll follow."

Taro did so. The cameras swung, and so did the cockpit- Taro felt himself slide forward a little before the belt across his waist caught him, painfully. Below- Or was it ahead? Taro wasn't sure, but below Jackson could be seen, tiny and featureless in the cameras' grainy greenish sight. He had one hand near his face and the other clutching some papers.

"Good, good. Now, we're going to start working on moving the machine..."

The training continued into the day, until the alarm bells rang.

* * *

><p>At the outskirts of the city called Metro, the towering figures of a Normal squadron watched over the crumbling, ancient highway that the city barely kept clear. Compared to the slim, obviously vehicular MTs, the Normals were bulky and almost comically oversized, even though both were roughly the same height. They were humanoid, with thick, square arms and legs, although their heads was small and covered in cameras and sensors. All were recognizable as GA03-Solarwinds.<p>

Seated on the chest of the mech was a uniformed man with a buzzcut and plenty of scars on his face and arms. He looked like a marine, sitting straight like he expected to march out of his seat at any moment. A few other pilots sat nearby, using an inactive cooling vent as a card table- Two women and two men, one for each of the other Solarwinds nearby. Technically they should have been patrolling the edge of the city, but heat and boredom had taken their toll. Now they were just wasting time until their patrol was over.

At least this time, Alex Tarant thought, they hadn't gone off to a bar somewhere.

"I raise," said a pilot, a man with a beard larger than his head and an accent thicker than gravy. "Ye got th' guts ta deal wi' that?"

One of the women, her hair cut short like the rest, narrowed her eyes. "You're fulla shit, Barlow. Don't tell me you're looking to push your luck."

"Hey, he wants to lose all his money, that's fine by me. Don't try to help him, Celina. I'll take that bet and raise it twice as much." The speaker, a black man with glasses and an old paintbrush tucked into his jacket, reached out and dropped a handful more coins into the pot. "Can you match it?"

Celina Pope shook her head hopelessly. "Got no more money. I fold."

"Aye, run, lassie! Don't suffer the humiliation o' losin' ta me!" The bearded man slapped his hands together after he placed his match into the pot. "Hurry up, Mia, we 'aven't got all day!"

The second woman, younger and obviously feeling intimidated by the older pilot, glanced down at her hand and bit her lip. "Um... I... match?" She dropped a few more coins into the pot, uncertainly.

"Alright, show your hands, boys and girl."

After a moment of silence, Mia's voice asked, hesitantly, "Does that mean I won?" The makeshift card table erupted into shocked shouts and incoherant explitives, while Pope laughed herself senseless nearby.

Tarant rolled his eyes. "Hey," he began, before something caught his attention. The radio at his belt was buzzing and crackling. At the sound, the whole squad fell silent. Tarant lifted it up, noting that the signal was coming from one of the civilian watch stations.

"Unknown targets sighted... Heading down Griffith's Road, towards Metro... _Past_ Metro, they're not turning off. Possible destination is the Hewa Kojima Plant. There are... Six armored vehicles, three large trucks- JAMALs, I think- carrying, uh, I think they're MTs. No Normals or higher, fortunately. Calling any available Arteria forces, they'll take out our power if they're not stopped!"

Tarant and his fellow pilots stared at it in silence. Barlow broke it, hesitantly. "Er... Lad, does that mean us?"

"Yes, it does. Get your Normals going, we're heading for Hewa immediately." The card players hurriedly grabbed up the deck before moving en masse towards the single ladder that had been dropped from the back of the Normal. "Pope, call up command and tell them what's going on, have them get the NASR squadron up in the air if they can, provide us some air cover and slow them down. You, Russo and Speider will provide cover. Barlow, you and I take point."

After a few frantic moments of climbing, the other pilots had settled into their Normals. Tarant's was already up and running, its powerful generator humming happily.

The cockpit of a Normal was much different than an MT's. For one thing, it wasn't nearly as user friendly- A Normal was expected to perform combat maneuvers that an infantryman could, at the very least. This meant that a simple lever and pedal system would never be sufficient.

Tarant had heard of what they used in NEXTs to control their incredible speed and precision- Simple human brainpower, amplified a thousandfold by computers and all sorts of technology they only hinted at. Normals, while prime recruiting fodder for Lynx, did not operate at quite that level, but their technology was still leaps and bounds beyond that of an MT or armored vehicle. They utilized AI and sensors to use their pilot's brain to determine what exactly needed to be done. It wasn't psychic or even that precise- It was more similar to an artificial limb's sensors than anything like a NEXT's control. Which made sense, all things considered.

Tarant pulled the helmet down over his face, shut his eyes tight as it pressurized around him. A small needle pricked the back of his skull and a few computer chimes helpfully informed him that he was not, in fact, dead and that his brain was working properly.

"Yes, very helpful, now get me moving," he growled, before hitting the booster sequence. The sound of jets echoed in his ears as the dozen plus engines located all along the mech activated, lifting it off the ground. Now it would glide over the dunes. Tarant flicked the comms open. "Everybody up?" A chorus of affirmatives answered him, with Russo sounding vaguely panicked as always. _Prime Lynx right there,_ he thought, _already halfway around the bend._ "Alright, in formation. Let's get there before the air support gets 'em!"

He tilted the mech forward and it went, gliding across the sand in a way that belied its size and weight. The squadron spread out, taking positions hundreds of meters seperate from each other in a wing-like formation. He and Barlow were up front, ready to take the brunt of any enemy fire, while Pope took center. Speider and Russo were a bit farther back, as rookies- Some officers might have put them up front, to get experience, but Alexander Tarant wasn't that kind of officer.

They circled around the edge of Metro, and Tarant noticed sirens going off and civilians running for cover on the streets. Pope had gotten the word out, at least. And he could just barely make out the battle shapes of the NASR gyros lifting off from Langes. The small fighters wouldn't be much use damagewise, but they'd force the enemy to stand and fight.

In the distance, Tarant spotted several clouds of dust, and promptly had his suspicions confirmed as the NASRs opened fire with a round of small missiles.

"Alright, we're approaching the enemy. Air force already has them engaged. Russo, Barlow, split off and hit them from the side. Let's make this an easy win."

"Yes, cap'n!" The bearded pilot's Normal leaned sideways and quickly vanished among the dunes, with Russo's right behind. Now there was the occasional line of tracer rounds from automatic weapons firing up at the NASR squadron. They wouldn't stick around long, not if they were being shot at- Too expensive to lose.

Tarant's computer beeped a warning, and he barely turned the Normal aside in time- A missile stuck his right should, cracking the armor but fortunately not damaging the arm. A small tank with a truly rediculous number of rockets strapped on was firing at him from the next dune, kicking up gouts of sand and shrapnel where it hit. He slowed his Normal to a speed where he could aim, and ignored his computer as another missile struck him in the torso. His mech's right arm came up, the slug launcher in it locking on to the tank. He fired once and it shattered, blasted apart by the size of his mech's bazooka.

Pope opened fire from her position at the rear, but Tarant didn't see what her target was. He had reached the top of the dune, and barely had enough time to realize what he was seeing before his Normal was hit by three different machine guns. The three MTs were not the familiar, quad-rifled Mamlukes that Langes had so many of. Instead, they were archaic GARQ8s, the grandpappy of most MTs. While lacking the firepower of their later models, the Gars did have one thing going for them; their only weapon, a heavy machine gun, could easily stop even a Normal with its rate of fire.

"Shit, they've got me locked down," he said. "Speider, get 'em off me!"

"Right on it, chief." The man's Normal came in from the side, firing its shoulder mounted rockets. One of the MTs toppled, its cockpit torn apart, and the remaining two paused in their fire, trying to choose between Tarant and the newcomer.

Pope didn't give them a chance, her machine gun stitching a pattern down the cockpit of the leftmost Gar. It turned, trying to track her, when it stopped, seemingly unable to follow her movement any further. It was then that Tarant realized that the mechs hadn't even stepped off their transports- or even stood up. They'd been placed so as to fire on the enemy pursuing them. If it hadn't been for the NASRs, his squadron would have run right into that. He's have to buy their flight leader a drink.

At the moment, though, he was more concerned with the fact that the remaining armor vehicles hadn't stopped. Fortunately, he needn't have worried- the faint flash of weapons fire told him that Russo and Barlow had noticed the flight.

He nudged the Normal forward, raising his bazooka at the undamaged MT. Speider beat him to it, the other Normal's shot taking out the Jamal it sat on and tearing it apart with collateral. Pope got the last with a rocket. "Target downed," she said. "What about the ones that ran?"

"We got tha bastards. I took some bad hits, though. Dyson's gonna rip me a new 'un," Barlow said, unhappily. "Russo got bangered up pretty good as well. Well armed for a bunch o' angry anti-leagues."

"We don't know if that's who they were," Speider said. "They could have been some GA guys trying to take out the Algebra generators there."

"Nah, there's a Interior Union lot there." Barlow sounded dismissive. "They wouldn't risk a fight with them, not over this."

"Huh? Really? Well, maybe it was a thirsty Free City trying to raid some Kojima."

"Hey!"

"Whoops, sorry, Pope. Forgot where you come from."

"They didn't have any storage containers," Russo added. "T-they couldn't have taken any if they wanted to."

"Cut the chatter, squad. Let's pretend we finished our patrol and head back to base, how's that sound?"

* * *

><p>Taro stood on the wall, looking down over the small balcony at the site of what had recently been a battlefield.<p>

The whole thing had seemed unreal, from the towering heights of Langes' walls and the distance at which it had happened. All he could have seen from the walltop was the faint blue light of the Normals' engines as they engaged the enemies, and the bright flashes of explosions and tracers. It looked like it had been a short fight.

Overhead, the oddly shaped helicopter/jets moved in for a landing, settling down in the field they'd taken off from. Those he had seen very well, firing burst rounds and missiles into the enemy to try and scatter them and stop them. It made sense for them to be helicopters, he supposed- There wasn't much in the way of runways around here.

"So... That's what it really looks like," he said, more to himself than to anyone listening. _It's not beautiful or horrible. It's just there._

Of course, he hadn't been in the middle of it. That would change soon, probably.

As Taro was leaving the walltops, he found himself face to face with Walker, who'd been coming up the stairs. He almost ran into her, in fact, so distracted by the sights he'd seen. He jumped back, stammering out an apology while she watched with an eyebrow raised. "What are you doing?" she asked, the constantly present cigarette moving to her hand for the moment. "Come on, it's almost noon. You're eating with your quad this time. And no," she said, cutting off his half-hearted protest, "you don't get a choice about it."

She turned to go, and Taro followed. "Okay, just... Why?" Taro asked, embarassed.

"Why what? Why do we want to talk with the new kid?" she said, amused. "Do you not want to eat or something?"

"Ah, no, not that, I just-!" Taro scrambled over his words, well aware that he was being fooled with and turning red from it.

To his surprise, Walker began to laugh, almost doubling over. When she recovered, she turned to face the boy who'd fallen from the Cradle and said, "Fine, if you really need a reason... How can we trust our backs to someone we've never met?"

At that moment, though, Taro realized something. "Wait, you said... 'Our' quad?"

Walker simply replaced her cigarette and continued down the stairs, while Taro continued to follow. He thought he would have been happy with the fact that he was fortunate enough to be in the same group as the two people he'd met his first day, and he was.

But he couldn't forget the ruined MT that they'd been bringing in to the hanger for repairs.

What did that mean? Dyson had told him that he was the first person to pilot 29D- But did that mean the mech itself, or the position? Had whoever's MT had been fried by a NEXT been the old 29D? It was a question that frightened Taro, and so he did not ask it.

* * *

><p><strong>As always, feedback and such is appreciated- Read and review!<strong>


	3. Comrades In Arms

**A/N: Hi. After a long period of stuff and things, I've decided that I actually enjoyed writing this and was utterly stupid to stop. As such, here's the third chapter, _finally_. Hopefully to be followed by a fourth in short order.**

**I continue to not own anything in this story.**

* * *

><p><em>Arteria Langes was quiet as the afternoon wore on<em>, its personnel and soldiers calming after the shock of the previous raid. The patrolling Normals had been brought in, their pilots quickly called off to the Admin Building to give their report of the attack. It left those not in the know yearning for details.

"What I wanna know," Jackson was saying, "is who they were. I mean, it's not like MTs grow out of the sand or something!"

"Yeah, you'n'everyone else. But they ain't saying, so you won't be knowin'."

There were plenty of 'pilot lounges' located around Langes, places for the large numbers of base personnel to congregate. This one was actually built for the purpose; a small building attached to the west wall, close enough to the MT barracks and hangers that they'd claimed it for their own. The cafeteria of the structure had been filled with chairs, couchs and tables, many of which were filled with the MT pilots of the first and second units. The majority were in uniform, but some wore civilian clothes that marked them as off duty. Taro sat with Jackson and Walker at one, feeling out of place in the crowd of soldiers.

"But that's what I _mean_. We ought go talk to the admins, see what they can tell us. I ain't going out on patrols if we're gonna be attacked without knowing who to look for!" Jackson seemed to be taking it as a personal affront that the MTs hadn't been told what had transpired, but Walker's reaction- or lack of one- implied that he acted like this all the time.

"Jackson, do you know what they'd do to you if you bothered them about that? Probably send you back to Metro without pay." Walker, not allowed to smoke indoors, bit into a baby carrot, her glare daring anyone to say something about it. No one did. "Jus' wait until th' news gets it. They might be able to keep us from learning, but Charity's got the skills enough to learn it."

"Yeah, sure, she's 'got the skills'. Whole story, free on the TV... A week later! By which point I might be dead, and the information a bit late."

Taro nearly jumped out of his chair as someone clapped a hand on his shoulder. "This the new fish?" He twisted to look at the newcomer, and saw a wiry, almost starved-looking man, his pointed chin outlined with a goatee and his eyes covered with sunglasses. He'd obviously just come in, shaking sand from his jacket. "He don't look like he's from around here. Where you from, fish?"

Taro stared up at the face from another generation. "Um... Why do you keep calling me 'fish'?"

"Huh? Oh, it's slang. You know, you flail 'round like one while you're in the Tee." The newcomer sat down on Taro's left. "Hey, baby, how you doing?" He sent a lecherous grin towards the woman sitting opposite.

Walker watched the wall impassively. "Better until you arrived."

"No loving banter today, Jules?"

"Not today and not ever, Jack."

Jackson looked the newcomer over. "Where's your guitar, Palmer? Lose it in the Nest?" That had been exactly what had seemed missing- A guitar. Palmer looked like a natural street musician, complete with the terrible dress sense. He was also, apparently, the holder of the 29C position.

"Nah, just left it in my 'partment. No one looks in the mood for a song anyhow." He yawned, raising a hand to scratch at his head- Which, Taro noticed, was entirely bald. "What I miss, man? I saw some smoke when I was comin' back in. There been a fight?"

"You could say that, not that they tell us." As Jackson began to rant again, Taro looked away. So that was the last member of their little four man group. Meeting him had reminded Taro of the question that had been gnawing at him all day- The identity of the pilot of the destroyed MT that had been brought in the day he'd arrived. Taro was well aware that his anxiety was irrational, but that didn't help it. He'd tried to ask Jackson when Walker had brought him here, but the boy couldn't find a way to put it.

"Well, if you're so curious, man, why not just go ask?" Palmer was leaning back in his chair, a good position to be in when listening to Jackson. "I mean, it's not like they can fire you if you ask right."

"And what's asking right?"

"Don't be a dick about it and just act natural. Ask the less important people, not the admins- You know, like Somme. She'd tell you if it's not too important."

Jackson rubbed his chin thoughtfully, a smile appearing. "Yeah, she might. 'Specially if we take the kid. Somme likes the new guys." He stood up and slammed a fist into his palm. "Alright! We're heading for the Admin building!"

Walker's carrot dropped out of her mouth. "Just like that? Are you stupid?" She stood up to follow, Palmer at her heels and Taro doggedly sticking along. "Look, I get that it sucks to pilot a Tee, but suicide is not the answer."

Taro's eyes widened. "Are they really that bad?" he asked, wondering if he'd get to experience a firing squad firsthand.

Palmer laughed. "They ain't exactly a charity, and bothering a officer's never a good idea. But they're just playing. Don't suspect we'll get anything though; I bet the officers know less than we do."

"What do you mean?" Taro asked, but Palmer just laughed him off and hurried up.

* * *

><p>A sheaf of papers slapped down onto a desk.<p>

"I knew it," Mia Russo said, mostly to herself. She rubbed her hands through her hair, wondering what she was supposed to do now.

Maps and papers covered the surface of the plastic folding desk, marked in red pen with complex figures and calculations. Mia couldn't quite recall how she'd noticed it, but it was all very clear now. From the way they'd been driving, the ordinance they'd been packing... It was impossible for them to be anything more than...

"A distraction. Why? Who?" She sounded out the words in her head. There weren't any big rebel groups in the area. Not even Line Ark, with their propensity for somehow getting everywhere. Was it the Free Cities, then? She looked at the maps again, and shook her head. _No, they're getting the better end of our deals... And they would have been smarter._ The Free Cities couldn't afford the vehicles the mysterious attackers had lost. So who?

The obvious conclusion was that there was some third party moving in. Maybe GA? B&FF would have attacked from the sea. But again the enemy force's size was simply too small for it to have been a company, who loved to attack in overwhelming force. Not to mention that going in violence against an Arteria was tantamount to committing political suicide.

Frusterated, she began to gather the various papers together, racking her brains for any information. Were there any rebel groups in the area? And what was the distraction for? Could there be infiltrators in the city? That's just what they'd need, more insurgants.

But she needed to submit a report, after all. The admins wouldn't be happy if they remained in the dark, and there wasn't much more she could do at the moment. So she'd give what she knew, and maybe they might be able to piece something together. Or they wouldn't. Whatever the case, they'd pull through. Carrying her stack of papers with both hands, she pushed open her door with her shoulder.

Almost immediately, Taro hit the door with a loud, painful thump.

* * *

><p>He'd gotten lost, of course. It's not like that was something new. Taro was used to the Cradles, where literally every layout, every structure, every single home, apartment, or street... They were all identical, mass-produced and laid out in a fashion that they could be modified to be houses, shops, shelters, factories...<p>

Whereas even a military structure like Langes had a layout that was confusingly unique to him. The admin building, as it turned out, was not located in the largest structure of Langes, which sort of made sense, since the biggest thing would be the first target. Instead, it was a comparatively tiny building tucked away in a corner, sheltered by shadows- A rounded structure, similar to a bunker, with a few small boxy outcroppings. High up on the walltop nearby it was an absolutely enormous communications array, one of several located in the Arteria.

As usual, no one was outside on a day like this, so the small group approaching the building were completely alone. Scarves and hands over their mouths and noses, they hurried with their heads down to stay out of the heat and wind- Another sandstorm was already blowing in, and Taro winced as it stung his cheek.

Palmer looked back and grinned. "Hey, fish, how ya holding up?" he asked, through a mouthful of bandana. "Always keep a mask on you! How'dja forget?"

Taro shook his head, wincing as another gust went by. "Distracted, sorry!" he shouted over the wind. "I forgot it!"

"What?" Palmer raised an eyebrow. "Kinda big thing to forget, ain't it?"

The entrance to the administrative building was at least slightly covered, and they removed the masks. Jackson banged twice on the front door, an anachronistically advanced sliding metal door, compared to the primitive, slab-built concrete that made up the rest of it. "Let us in!" he shouted. "It's a god damn dust bowl out here!"

The door beeped once, then slid open with a slick hiss. Palmer clapped his hands together. "_Yes._ I want a door like that. A door that whooshes."

"It's not that impressive, is it?" Taro asked, stepping inside. Jackson and Walker had already rushed in.

"Fish, you have the weirdest mind. Lost a mask, and not impressed by _whoosh_?" The guitarist shook his head, bemused. "You some rich kid or something?"

"No, not at all." Technically, this was true, if your standards were different.

"Alright, so," Jackson said, turning to face them. "We need to find Somme- She's the second-in-command of MTs at Langes, so if anyone'll have been told that we can talk to, she'd have been. I dunno where she'll be in here, but probably she'll have an office of her own."

They stood in a room that resembled the waiting rooms found in doctor's offices everywhere- Chairs along with the walls, interspersed occasionally with tables for magazines or small boring potted plants. There was a television hanging from the ceiling, although it was off. Taro glanced at the magazines as he passed- Not a one was familiar to him, and a few seemed to be in languages other than the League standard; Something that would not only have never occured on the Cradles, but was even probably illegal.

There was also the eternal bored-looking secretary behind a pane of glass, his expression seeming just a little dazed. Or, perhaps, high out of his mind. He had been slumped until the pilots had entered, and gave a sad little wave in their direction, his hand flopping. "Hey," he said, drawing out the word. "What's up, bro?" He blinked. "Oh, a bunch of you. Hey. Wow. What are you guys here for? There's a sandstorm coming, you know?" He turned it into a question at the last moment, as if unsure of what he'd just said.

"We wanna know," Jackson said, leaning on the counter, "just what it was that happened yesterday." Walker rolled her eyes.

"Yesterday? What happened yesterday...?" The secretary looked down at a computer screen, his fingers moving at a blistering pace despite his stoned actions. "Are you asking about the results of the Order match?"

"No! Look, can we talk to Somme?"

"You're talking to someone, yeah."

Taro somehow doubt they'd get anything useful out of him. More than likely, the man was leading them on and not at all going to reveal anything, the tactic used by customer support and advice workers everywhere who were paid by the hour. He'd learned at an early age that the only way to get information out of people was to have enough money to pay them off, or to get it yourself. That had been the Cradles, of course, but he supposed the same principle applied here. Except, down here he could get fired or worse for it...

"Hey, where's the bathrooms?" he asked before he could stop himself.

The secretary glanced at him. "Through the door and down the hall, to the right." He jerked a thumb back at a door on the wall near his desk- Obviously the way deeper into the administrative building.

The boy nodded. "Thank you," he said, quickly, then hurried over to the door. Palmer shot him a thumbs up, and Jackson nodded.

Taro quickly shut it behind him, leaning against it on the other side. Not only had that actually worked, but _he'd_ done it.

"What've you gotten yourself into this time, idiot?" he muttered to himself, before standing up. _Somme. I'll just talk to her, maybe._ Driven by a desire to impress his new comrades, Taro started down the hall, scanning every nameplate he passed. _Alrich, Applegate, Janner_... The hall branched, and he turned down it, starting to hurry slightly. _This was a bad idea, a really bad ide-_

Clunk.

It was at that moment that a door was pushed open. Taro, distracted dually by worries of being caught and worries of failing at his task, didn't stand a chance- He smacked right into it. Fortunately, he didn't have much of a nose to break, and he hadn't been running all that fast. It still hurt.

Stumbling back and clutching his forehead, he froze as a quiet voice said, "Huh?" A girl poked her head around the door, leaning into it with her shoulder. Her expression became mortified. "Did I hit you?" she asked, with genuine concern in her voice.

Taro, with his hands still on his forehead, didn't quite know how to respond. "Er... No?"

"I didn't?" The girl blinked, her wide eyes going wider. "Then who did I hit?" She craned her head around, trying to find some other unfortunate soul. "Did they run away?"

"No, I..." Taro paused. "Yes, you did hit me, but I'm fine." He hesitated. "Are you?"

"Am I what?" The girl blinked, stepped out of the door, which nearly slammed back into place. She was wearing a Langes uniform, a large stack of papers in her hands.

"Fine?" Taro winced. _Arrrrgh._ He shook his head. "Sorry. Ah... Would you happen to know where a 'Somme' is?"

"Oh, yes."

Taro brightened up. "Aha. Can you tell me?"

"She's out in the field right now."

"Oh." He sighed.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Er..." He tugged at his collar nervously. "To be honest, I'm just curious about what happened yesterday." He flinched as suddenly half the papers were shoved into his hands.

"Good! So am I. Can you take that? Thanks." The girl smiled broadly. "I'm taking this up to the Operator."

"And I'm helping?" Taro asked, weakly.

"Yes." The girl hurried forward, then paused. "Oh! I forgot to say." She turned back, inclining her head. "My name's Mia Russo. Yours?"

"Taro A-Amsar."

The girl started forward again, heading down the hall. "Come with me, then. I'm afraid there won't be many answers, though. And don't go reading those papers, either!" Taro, who had been about to do exactly that, froze guiltily.

He followed Russo up two flights of stairs, past two floors the same as the one below- Sandy stone and metal doors. The next level, however, dropped the stone entirely- The walls were now reinforced steel, almost as tough as the stuff he'd seen in the Cradles, or so he assumed. There _were_ guards here- Serious men in body armor with high tech rifles and visors, seemingly petrified with how alert they were. _Almost certainly drugs,_ he thought. They stood to either side of another aperture that Taro could only think of as a _whoosh_ door now.

"Hello!" Russo chirped sunnily, nearly skipping forward. The guards didn't move, although Taro noticed one nodded at her. "I have my report." Taro stood a little behind her, but shifted the papers she'd given him to indicate that, yeah, they're part of it too.

Without speaking, one of the guards reached back and tapped a panel. _Whoosh_ happened, and the door opened. Russo stepped through without hesitation, but Taro was a bit slower to follow.

The room within was a cavernous space, probably a story and a half in height, with metal pillars supporting it in case of an attack. Every available bit of space was filled with computer equipment- Consoles, boxes and various wiry twiddly bits blinked and beeped at him from all sides, which just goes to show that growing up on a borderline spaceship doesn't make you a computer whiz. There was a raised platform in the center of the room, surrounded by screens and equipment- Of everything in there, it looked the most advanced and important.

Strangely, though, despite the size of the place there weren't many people in it- A dozen or so technicians moved about, but they were quiet, and seemed fairly unconcerned. Taro realized that he was looking at the nerve center of Langes... And it was virtually asleep.

Footsteps brought him back to reality, and he caught Russo saluting just in time to follow the action. Following her gaze, he took another look at the raised platform.

Circular in shape, it seemed to Taro to most resemble a a stage- But one for a band composed entirely of drummers. Drummers on segways. There were four chairs on the platform, but they sat on tracks, able to quickly slide from one console to another- Which was a good thing, since the outer ring of the platform was entirely composed of complicated controls, screens and panels. In the middle of the ring was an immobile throne, a command chair that no doubt told the others what to do. Currently, they were all unoccupied.

The one Russo was saluting to, then, must have been the woman- She leaned against the railing of the platform, her serious expression considering the two of them. She was old, but not elderly- Fifties or sixties, Taro would assume, with the stern, commanding look that would once have been referenced to as an 'iron lady'. Her hair was slate gray and her skin tan and scarred, and dressed in her dark uniform she made an imposing figure. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that she was the one in the command chair.

"Madam Operator!" Russo said, for the first time sounding nervous. "I... I've finished my report."

"Protocol says you should have dropped it off at my office." The Operator straightened up, heading for a catwalk staircase. "But very well. Anything I should know about it?"

Russo held a hand out, and Taro stared at it for a second before remembering his half of the papers. He handed them over quickly, and she held the full stack out towards the Operator. "No ma'am! It's all clear ma'am, just the facts! No conclusions to be made."

"... Yes, I see." She took it, tucking it under her arm. "Very well then, good job." Her eyes fell on Taro. "... But who is this?"

"Eh?" Russo glanced back at Taro quickly, then faced the Operator again. "He's..."

"I'm an assistant," Taro said quickly. "Just helping her carry the report."

The woman's expression told him she didn't quite buy it, but she shrugged. "Fine, then. You're both dismissed."

Taro barely stopped himself from running straight out, not looking back until he was safe on the stairwell again; At which point he leaned against the handrail, sighing. "Scary," he remarked. Russo nodded, distractedly.

"I have some work to get done," the girl said, slowly. "So I need to go. But I hope to meet you again." She turned around, to head back up the stairs, and paused. "Wait... Which squadron are you in?"

"Um... 29?" he hazarded.

"An MT?" The girl's expression briefly fell, and for a second she looked depressed. It sprung back to her vague smile again. "Nice to meet you, mister Amsar. See you later." She turned and walked back up, leaving Taro feeling slightly like he'd failed a test somewhere.

He came back to the waiting room to find Jackson sitting in one of the chairs, his arms crossed over his chest and looking annoyed. Walker had magazine in hand, boredly scanning it, while Palmer appeared to be asleep.

"What took ya so long, Taro?" Jackson grumbled, standing up quickly. "Let's go, it's a waste of time here." He stalked over to the door, throwing it open- To Taro's suprise, the air outside was clear again already.

As they filed out, Walker chuckled. "Now, not to be that girl who says I told you so, but..."

"Shush," Jackson said, glaring back at the woman. Then his eyes fell on Taro. "Right! Our little spy!" Jackson turned to face him. "You learn anything?"

"Ah..." Taro blushed as three sets of eyes turned to him. "Er... Not in particular... I met a girl, and she-" He blushed deeper as Walker whistled, which made Jackson burst into laughter. "S-She said they didn't know anything!" he stammered out.

"Nice, fish." Palmer leered at him. "Workin' your charms to get info, eh?"

"Actually, it was mostly by accident. And she probably forgot me already."

"Ha! Get some self-respect, Taro! You'll be rising in the ranks in no time if you do." Jackson laughed again as Taro ducked his head.

"This still doesn't change anything," Walker protested. "It was still pointless to go through this crap."

Jackson turned away, walking with a smug air. "Not so!" he said, with a dramatic voice. "After all, now I _know_ nobody knows. So now the question won't bother me, you know?"

Walker started to argue, but Jackson laughed again. Completely at ease, they started on their way to the barracks again.

Taro smiled, following behind them at a slight distance. "Maybe not so worthless after all," he said, under his breath.

At that moment, though, he felt a prickle on his neck, and he glanced up. Palmer was looking back at him, and Taro saw open suspicion written there. After a second, the guitarist grinned and waved him forward. "C'mon, fish," he said, "Hurry up! We'll miss dinner at this rate!"

Jackson swore and sped up. "No goddamn way! They're serving real steak tonight! No way I'm missing out on that!"

The squadron broke into a run, Jackson in front with his arms flailing, shouting for the rest to hurry up.

These were the first days that Taro spent at Langes- Peaceful, quiet. An interlude of mercy in a landscape constantly fraut with pain and death.

It would be a little less than a week before that peace would break, and it would not break gently.


End file.
